Self-indulgent ruminations from someone just as abashed, appalled, intrigued and inspired as you about my life.
If I were a rich, white woman, this would be my eat, pray, love moment...

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

The Italian Stallion Rideth

My friend, Brian, and I rendezvoused at an Italian restaurant last week for dinner, and as much of our conversations invariably devolve, we discussed our prostates, sex lives and our mutual yearning to wear assless chaps on an episode of Glee. My prostate, ever the belligerent little devil, happened to be fighting with my bladder at the time because it was rather restless, but Brian's remained sated from the previous weekend. As he reclined back in the rattan chair completely relaxed, he smiled and said "I loved hearing about the nipple-sucker debacle again in your blog." Shit. Brian was already well aware of Areola-gate 2008, having heard the story at a previous dinner/drink-fest/pity party, and he regaled me with a story of his own. As I dipped my breadstick into the goat cheese and tomato sauce, I shuddered from two things. When he mentioned something about a headboard and a horse, my mind raced first to a certain Italian Stallion. Before I could segue into a Mr. Ed visual, the restaurant hostess also sat an unfortunate-looking woman in the table next to us.

When I say "Italian Stallion," I don't mean Sylvester Stallone. This guy was slightly less tragic and I'm sure a few years younger than Stallone's latest face. He did have a body like The Situation and a face like a younger Adrian Pasdar from Heroes, however. I met the Italian on a magical night at a drag show, the air perfumed with blackouts and MAC cosmetics (I'm also calling him Italian because I don't remember his name. He may very well have been German. Point is: I didn't care). Per the usual, I attended the show with a girlfriend to imbibe and dance and had no desire to meet anyone. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to boys that night. My only wish was to speak directly to vodka, trannies and Jenni, my girlfriend of choice that night. By the seventh vodka tonic, I managed to lose both Jenni and my eyesight for an unknown amount of time, only to recover and discover her chatting up the Italian and beckoning me over. He wanted to buy me a drink. After I made a fuzzy mental note to acquire a bed pan that night, I accepted the drink which tasted oddly of Jäger (you know, with that horrid taste of candied yams mixed with Robitussin). I loathe Jäger. I believe I downed two shots quite easily.

Blackness.

Apparently, Jenni thought we should have an escort back to my apartment which was about a three-minute walk from the bar. I do not recall this because I recouped my intoxicated lucidity only after we stumbled back inside the gate of my apartment building. Jenni dialed her husband to come retrieve her, and my clothes disappeared as I slid into the apartment's communal pool. I had just cajoled the Italian into the pool when Jenni's husband, Adam, called. He was near my street but appeared to be lost and desperate. Midtown Atlanta at three in the morning screams "gay," so I immediately jumped into action to save him from the city's homo wilderness. Obviously, reciting him my satellite coordinates to plug into his GPS would not work, so I grabbed Jenni's phone and flashed out onto the streets in my chlorine-sodden briefs. Before I realized the pavement would decimate my latest pedicure, I reached Juniper and 10th and claimed the traffic light pole to maintain balance and strike a pose for passers-by. Adam dictated his whereabouts and eventually made his way to Juniper. However, to be safe that he not lose his way again, I calmly walked out into the intersection to wave him down and direct the oncoming traffic (the VW Jetta is much bigger in close proximity). I hugged Adam freely when he parked next to me in the street, my arms still flailing in the wind in case cops in the nearby area needed to check on our security.

In hindsight, I count myself lucky for not being arrested. That mugshot would not be pretty. Once Adam and Jenni departed safely, my attention swerved back to the Italian. He managed to find my apartment, borrow a Coke from the refrigerator and engage in a conversation with my roommate, Lauren, all by himself in his underwear. I beamed with pride. Once settled and dry, I introduced him to my bedroom, and he introduced me to his package. As things rarely faze me, I can count on one hand the times when I've become horrified and speechless. This penis public appearance floored me...it was the size of a beer can. I knew then that I would never snap back from this anaconda about to strike and grimaced at the irony of my affectionate name for him, Italian Stallion.

Blackness.

I regained consciousness as I was bowled over the toilet, ridding my body of the Jäger shots and my turkey club sandwich from dinner. The Italian rolled out of my bed and came to what I thought would be holding my hair back. No, he hoisted me up as I wiped my mouth and led me back to bed for round two.

Blackness.

Brian relished this story immensely, and I realized a few vital quirks about myself. I talk about sex way too much, so I need to rein it in and table the one night stand talk. I'm thrilled I make the mistakes of my earlier twenties less often, and I appreciate my hatred for beer even more. Oh, and thank God for blackouts.

The stuffy old woman in the table next to us, apparently eavesdropping on our dialogue, had heard enough. She leered at me with disgust and summoned the hostess to seat her in a table on the other side of the restaurant.